But Charles soon interrupted her, sharply requesting her to sing something else or cease entirely for that day.

Startled, she again asked forgiveness, and then pleaded in justification the universally acknowledged beauty of this charming song, which Maestro Gombert also admired; but the Emperor flew into a passion, and cut her short with the loud remark that he was not in the habit of having his own judgment corrected by the opinion of others.  The jest did all honour to the skill and merry mood of the composer, but the contrary might be said of the singer who ventured to sing it to a person in whom it could awaken only bitter feelings.

But when, so painfully surprised that her eyes filled with tears, she confessed that her selection perhaps had not been very appropriate, and sadly added the inquiry why her beloved sovereign condemned a trivial offence so harshly, he wrathfully exclaimed, “For more than one reason.”

Then, rising, he paced the room several times with a somewhat limping gait, saying, in so loud a tone that it could be distinctly heard in the dark, sultry garden:  “Because it shows little delicacy of feeling when the man who is satiated tells the starving one of the dainty meal which he has just eaten; because—­because I call it shameful for a person who can see to tell one who is blind of the pleasure he derives from the splendid colours of gay flowers; because I expect from the woman whom I honour with my love more consideration for me and what shadows my life.  Because”—­and here he raised his voice still more angrily—­“I demand from any one united to me, the Emperor, by whatever bond——­”

The marquise had been unable to hear more of the monarch’s violent attack, for the messenger who had just brought the unwelcome news—­it was Adrian Dubois—­had not only passed her, but ventured to call to her and remark that she would be wise to go into the house—­a thunderstorm was rising.  He was not afraid of the rain, and would wait there for his Majesty.

So the listener did not hear how the incensed monarch continued with the demand that the woman he loved should neither tell him falsehoods nor deceive him.

Until then Barbara had listened, silent and pale, biting her trembling lips in order to adhere to her resolve to submit without reply to whatever Charles’s terrible irritability inflicted upon her.  But he must have noticed what was passing in her mind, for he suddenly paused in his walk, and, abruptly standing before her, gazed full into her face, exclaiming:  “It is not you who are offended, but I, the sovereign whom you say you love.  Day before yesterday I forbade you to go to the musician in Red Cock Street, yet you were with him to-day.  I asked you just now whether you had obeyed me and, with smiling lips, you assented.”

Barbara was already prepared with an answer in harmony with the sharpness of the attack, yet her lover’s reproof was well founded.